


Orange Roses

by anodyneAvian



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alpha Universe, Dreams, Family, Headcanon, Jossed, POV Third Person, References to Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-01
Updated: 2012-03-01
Packaged: 2017-10-31 22:39:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anodyneAvian/pseuds/anodyneAvian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TG: so about yesterday<br/>TG: sorry</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orange Roses

**Author's Note:**

> For Emmy. I hope you like it. It’s about 3 000+ words. And is based off of a ton of headcanons. Uhhh, sorry if there’s any mistakes or if its really melodramatic and awkward or if it makes you uncomfortable. Enjoy?

The dreams had been there his whole life. Of course, he had never thought much of them until he turned thirteen. Before, they had just seemed like Dave having an active imagination in his sleep. But time passed. He got older; started piecing things together. The dreams started to feel more like scattered, broken memories than just something his brain came up with. The same people, ones he was sure he had never seen before, appeared each time. 

If Dave didn’t remember seeing them, how could they appear in his dreams? From what he knew, it didn’t work that way.

He couldn’t remember any names. The only one he could ever make out in the mess of people, colours, and places was his own name. But even still, the kids in his dreams reminded him of something: a girl who made him think of the colour green and frogs; another girl who looked like him – almost - whom of which made him think that she should be named after a flower; and a boy, dorky and kind of stupid, who seemed to carry the breeze with him. 

Dave had attempted, of course, to convince his foster parents that maybe there was something else to these dreams. They merely waved it off, telling him that he was just having some interesting fantasies. That maybe he should write them down and be an author. 

This soon became a very common answer.

But he knew it couldn't be true. Rare as they were at the time, they seemed too complicated; too realistic in his mind to be fake. There were even people with strange eye colours like his own!

Even then, he was greeted with that same answer. 

More time passed, and throughout high school he began to draw. Slowly, he got better at coping with the dreams, drawing out the faces and places from them. His art improved. It gave him something to do and kept his mind off the endless torrents of death and confusion that he was faced when when he closed his eyes.

It was calming, and for a shut in like him, it was what he needed. 

Dave dated and made friends, but slowly he began to notice he was going just for people who reminded him of those in his dreams. Girls with short hair; snarky girls; girls with long black hair; girls who had a thing for bright colours or justice. Boys with black hair, messy more often than not; ones who liked clowns; boys who hated them; and so on….

Then he did something stupid: he tried to tell his friends about his dreams. At first it began as the usual talking-about-dreams-thing that friends did. Then he started to talk about what he thought they meant; how real they felt. 

He began to scared off people that way. Some thought he was autistic, or cute, while others just thought he was loony; creepy; or just plain strange.

It wasn’t like it mattered to Dave. He wasn’t good at keeping these friends anyways. Often times he was too cold; too distant, they told him. He got used to this kind of stuff. He was a Strider. A loner. He was independent and he’d be fine. 

After enough heartbreak – though really, it wasn’t that as Strider couldn’t get their heart broken – Dave gave up on art; he gave up on trying to make friends.

When he was about eighteen, he left home. His foster mother was smothering and his foster father was cool but often pushed too much stress onto others. He didn't hate them but he wasn't sure if he loved them. They had taken him in, yes, and he was grateful for such. It was just that something about them felt off – like he wasn't supposed to be living with them. Living in this time. It didn't matter, he told himself, all he actually knew was that it was time for this crow to leave the nest anyways.

Admittedly, those weren’t the only reasons he remembered leaving for. Another dream; a dream in the mix-match of the memory-like ones and just normal, stupid ones. It didn’t fit in with the memory dreams, as he called them, but it still felt important.

So he left; started to study in Houston, Texas. 

That was where he found him. 

Dave had kept his eyes trained on the sky, and one day he saw something: a meteor. From there Dave found him, setting there with that fucking creepy puppet that invaded his nightmares still: his little Bro.

He named him Dirk. It wasn’t the best name, but it felt right. After all, Bro seemed like a shitty name for a kid, and Dick made him sound like a porn star.

So, Dirk it was.

He gave the kid some slick shades and did his best to keep them both fed and strong. When the kid was old enough, he taught him how to hold a sword: from there, sword fighting. It wasn't a smart thing to teach a young kid; oh, no, not in the least. He had done it because doing such felt so right. It felt like some order had finally been brought into the world. Perhaps, it was because another cool kid had finally graced the earth.

Dirk was in his dreams, he soon realized. But something was still off: Dirk was much older in the dreams, whilst Dave stayed forever thirteen. It just didn’t add up. So many things just didn't add up. He hated it. 

One day, he began making shitty comics for a good laugh. Plus, it helped teach the kid about irony. Before he knew it, the webcomic was extremely popular. Sometime later, a movie studio asked about it. Through a painstaking process, and a short internship, he was allowed to direct movies for the studio. And while he had a stable job, he decided he liked the apartment he lived in and stayed there with his brother. Like with the sword fighting, it just felt right. 

It was around this time that he began a rivalry with Betty Crocker Corp. He had never liked their products, even when he was a chubby little snot-nosed brat, but something was fishy about them. Something was up, and soon he began to feel hate for them: as though they had something to due with the dreams; with everyone thinking he was crazy.

Not that Dave did much to disprove that he was crazy. 

He stayed standoffish in the media, even with his new found popularity, placed a bust in front of Dirk’s door when needed and of course, made the first real life JPEG Artifact. 

“How are we making money out of nothing, sir?” One naïve intern asked as they toured the factory. Dave just gave her one of his rare smiles, though it was more of a smirk lately. There was a pause of awkward and totally ironic silence.

“Sir, people have been asking about… what we’re going to do with these… terrible products,” she hesitated, blinking at her boss. The intern swallowed thickly as she wiped sweat off her brow.

Dave hummed and then took a page from his strange dreams. “Launch them into the fuckin’ sun,” he said simply. 

“The sun, sir?” Confusion and fear were aloft in her voice as she repeated him. 

“Yes. The sun! We have enough money, don’t worry,” Dave told her smoothly. The intern gulped, nodding, before heading off to go carry out his request.

However, no matter how hard he tried to hide himself from the tabloids, though, people still gossiped about him. Went on about how crazy he was. Spread rumours that he was clinically insane. Dave did what a Strider does and ignored them. Dirk followed the same route, being the wonderful nine-year-old he was, and pretended to not care.

Dave even began to talk to a woman by the name Rose Lalonde. Her name caused his breath to catch in his throat every time he read or heard it. It sounded so familiar. He couldn't place why. Maybe he just liked the sound of it. He wasn't sure. But something about her name made him feel homesick, even if he was smack-dap on the middle of his living room floor.

Rose was an author – the same thing he had always been told to be - who too disliked BC Corp., and had a child around Dirk’s age. She mentioned a few strange dreams, but they didn't happen as often and sure as hell didn't seem to fit in. Chess? Odd but not what he was looking for.

The two chatted often, though Dave wouldn’t tell Dirk who he was talking to. Rose was kind enough to listen to Dave’s rambling about the dreams, but he had a feeling that she didn’t believe them. He soon came to notice, as the happiness of having someone to listen to him wore off, that her court little replies implied something else. She was analyzing him, probably trying to figure out what was wrong with him: why he was crazy and what mental illness he had. He knew this. He had seen it before, with the counsellors and therapists he had been sent to throughout his life.

This revelation in no way made his heart drop, nor did it disappoint him. Striders just didn't feel that kind of emotions.

So, soon, they talked less and less, but eventually they managed to drift away from the subject of Dave’s dreams in the few conversations they had. Still, Dave felt a strange wave of Déjà vu.

As Dirk grew closer to becoming thirteen, the talk about Dave being crazy grew worse. He felt like it was something to do with Betty Crocker. It had to be! Too many people seemed to buy that he was insane. The whole company was just surrounded by propaganda. So in return, he did the same. This got his rivalry a bit more well known.

He did his best to keep working on movies, and soon became absorbed in them. Other than the rare strife with Dirk or conversation with Rose, Dave was usually mauling over his dreams or bullshitting his work as per usual.

Dirk.

Dirk was the only one who sincerely listened to his dreams. He listened to Dave talk about the kids, and about the strange aliens he encountered. He listened to all the raving about teal writing, grey text, purple text, blue text, and so on forth. Dirk also took hearing Dave talk about all the deaths he experienced in the dreams, as well as all the death caused by the Dog Demon, as they called it. And while Dirk would later buy into it after he awoke on Derse, a similar place to that of one mentioned in the dreams, at the time Dirk doubted that they were real. However, still believed there was something odd about them that might mean something and that was all Dave needed. 

Or, so he thought.

Even Rose noted the sudden attention he was getting, as they had in fact moved on from harassing her to doing the same to him. 

\--------  
TT: It’s odd isn’t it, how they seem to be targeting us especially?  
TG: yeah whatever its probably just something stupid  
TG: not one of those conspiracy things  
TG: like that ones you always rave about  
TT: I do not always rave about these so called “conspiracies”.  
TT: They are legitimate concerns and possible explanations based off of many observations.  
TG: wow  
TG: for a moment you almost fooled me into believing these were real concerns  
TG: you should be an actor  
TG: if you talk as good as you write  
TG: i could help with that you know  
TT: No thank you.  
TT: I think you are merely denying such. You do believe something is off about that company. Don’t you?  
\----

Dave, however, started to believe that maybe it was something to do with the “batterwitch” as he began to call Betty Crocker. Dave blamed the nickname on all the online friends Dirk had been making in his absence, though he had to admit the name really stuck.

Conspiracies aside, it didn’t make him feel any better. As a Strider, he wouldn’t admit that it made him feel hated; and soon he almost started to believe it himself. Maybe, just maybe, he was loony. Did the crazy ever admit to being such? No, not usually. So, maybe that’s why he had been denying it so much. 

Maybe he was insane. 

Even thoughts like that wouldn’t scare away the dreams. They still plagued his sleep, Dirk often having to wake him up in the middle of the night because he was being too loud. Some scenes repeated themselves, for the first time ever, namely his many deaths. Slit throats; bullet wounds; explosions; they consumed his dreams and felt so real; too real.

Dave slipped more and more into a state of depression. He did his best to focus on his work, until it almost took over his life. He stopped picking up Dirk from his school and barely ever showed up to feed the thirteen year old. Dave had even begun to lock the kid into his room with a bust for no other reason than to make himself feel safer.

He didn’t even notice the bitter look that Dirk gave him now. But slowly, he had begun to notice the anger and resentment that was starting to form from his neglect to his little bro. However, Dave was too much of a mess on the inside from everything to deal with it correctly.

So he just kept ignoring him.

\-----

Dave twirled the Advil bottle around in his hands, as he sat huddled in the living room. He could end this. No one for Dirk or anyone to hate now. They couldn’t harass him anymore, analyze him or even turn any other family members against him, just like they had done with his foster parents only months before.  
He took a deep breathe and popped off the cap. This was crazy. Absolutely crazy but wasn’t he crazy anyways? His hand shook as he poured them out. He didn’t know how many it would take to off him, but he figured it would take a lot if it was called overdosing.

He pushed the pills into the centre of his shaking hand, lifting it to his mouth. He could do this. He was a Strider. Striders' were cool and collected and he was one.

No.

He wasn't.

Striders weren’t uncool enough to just quit like he was. Striders didn't abandon their little brothers like this. He was pathetic, and that only made him hate himself more. It only made Dave want to end it more, before he caused himself any more pain. He was not Strider, just a failure. An mentally ill failure. 

Slowly, he began to sallow as many pills as he could at once. His whole body shook as he tried to hold back choked sobs, which fought to escape his dry lips. Oh god, what was he doing. His mind was a mess, unable to hold his pokeface any longer but unable to succumb to the current situation. So, he just panicked internally.

He licked at his lips furiously, holding arms as still as he could manage. And waited.

That's all he could do now: wait. He adjusted his shades and as sick as they where they often reminded him of his dreams. Dave focused hard on the text that covered the empty pill bottle. It'd be over soon, he told himself. Then he would not longer be the mess of a man that he was.

He closed his eyes as nausea pulsed through his body. He took another deep breath, trying not vomit nor freak the fuck out. He didn't want that. Not yet. Not now. 

As he felt sicker and sicker, he hoped that it was a sign of him getting closer to death. Dirk wouldn't be home for some time, he couldn't stop him doing them. Dave swallowed and pulled out his phone as gingerly as one could with quaking fingers. Then, he texted his little bro. A final goodbye. He hadn't had the forethought to get write a suicide note.

He could only hope that the project he had been working on earlier hadn't been finished yet. An auto responder would be a nuisance. 

\------  
TG: bro  
TG: dirk this is important okay  
TG: i dont know when youll see this but  
TG: i love you okay  
TG: totally unironic thing to say i know  
TG: but its important  
TG: goodbye  
\------  
He turned his phone off for the last time before Dirk - or anything - could reply. Dave swallowed again, licking at his chapped mouth. He closed his eyes, just waiting. Time passed, and Dave cursed himself for being able to know how much it had been. He hated that. It was like the beat of time ticked away in the back of his head, always keep track yet just out of his reach.

That was when the door swung open, before slamming closed with a force that shook the wall. Fuck. Dirk had ran home, hadn’t he? He had probably assumed something was wrong; Dave knew Dirk, and his lil bro probably thought he was being out of character. Dave swore softly to himself, not able to bring himself to look over at where Dirk was.

“Dude, are you okay?” He asked, sounding the tiniest bit concerned. He moved closer, shadow towering over Dave now. When Dave didn’t grace him with an actual answer, Dirk reached for his quivering arms. Then Dirk finally saw the pill bottle. Dave half expected him to get angry; to yell at his brother and parental figure for being a selfish coward. After all, he was just about to abandon his thirteen year old bro.

 

But instead, Dirk stayed eerily calm, if a bit stern. “You need to vomit them up,” he said, trying to force Dave to stand. 

“No, I don't,” Dave said stubbornly. “Why can't you just let me do this?” He snapped, trying to not cave into himself like a black hole of emotions.

“Because I don't want you to die,” Dirk retorted, sounding much more older than a young teenager. “Because... you don't deserve to. The shit they go on about isn't that bad, okay? You're not crazy, there has to be something about those dreams. But, please... I don't want you to die.” There was desperation laced into his words, and Dave had to congratulate him on being the better Strider when it came to hiding pesky emotions. After all, it was Dave who was breaking down; not him.

Dave glanced up at him finally, as Dirk slipped his brother's glasses off. They stared long and hard at each other, before Dave finally let some sobs escape, as he felt his eyes tear up. Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic. 

Dirk hugged him close. “Please... just vomit them up.” Eventually, Dave allowed himself to be led into the bathroom to do such, and admittedly he felt a bit better. Self hate and pity still swam through his head, but he hoped he'd get over it soon. His brother gave him the warmest, saddest smile he had ever seen on his face, hugging him closely. Dirk's hand rubbed his back, urging to keep trying to get the pills out of his body. 

Through the guilt that took over Dave's mind, he managed to hug back tightly, crying like a baby. He was so pathetic...

\-------

TG: so about yesterday  
TG: sorry

**Author's Note:**

> and then he later gets killed by the batterwitch UnU


End file.
